


and i've found a way to kill the sound

by Anonymous



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Choking, Consensual Kink, Femdom, Gags, Gen, Impact Play, Non-Sexual Kink, Platonic BDSM, Platonic Cuddling, Riding Crops, going non-verbal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:22:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29751267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: This is how they work. His dedication is a tool for her to use, his loyalty is a weapon for her to wield, and his obedience is a toy for her to play with.His pain is a drug for her to get them both high off of.
Relationships: Owen Thompson | Agent Green & Ellie Wadsworth
Kudos: 4
Collections: Anonymous





	and i've found a way to kill the sound

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Line Without a Hook" by Ricky Montgomery.
> 
> If you know who wrote this...
> 
> ...yeah, okay, you know who wrote this.

There is a hook on the wall of the bedroom of Ellie Wadsworth’s apartment.

This hook is rounded and wide and roughly the exact height from the floor of a six foot man with his arms outstretched high. Also stored in this room is a pair of leather cuffs, designed to wrap around a person’s wrists, connected by a chain. The correlation of these two objects is that this accessory can easily be slipped through the hook on the wall, thereby proving an effective method of restraint for a hypothetical six foot man with outstretched arms.

At least, Owen Green, a not so hypothetical six foot man whose arms are currently outstretched and whose wrists are currently cuffed tightly, finds it to be effective. His tired arms have no choice but to remain hanging from the hook above him and the position he’s stuck in requires him to remain upright. His one source of comfort after having already been left to stand here on his own for minutes already, is the fact that he can still lean comfortably back against the wall. At least, he could if it weren’t for--

“Stand up. No leaning,” she says curtly as the door opens and she enters. He’s always admired the way she enters a room. Even in buildings she’s never been to before, she always enters a room like she owns the room and everything in it.

Standing upright at her order, shirtless and restrained, he can’t help but feel like a part of that aforementioned ‘everything’. She paces towards him quickly, grabbing his hair tightly in her fist and giving a pull sharp and hard enough that he closes his eyes and bites down on his lip to resist making a noise.

“How is it supposed to  _ hurt _ if you get to just  _ lean back?” _ she spits, releasing him abruptly.

This is how they work. His dedication is a tool for her to use, his loyalty is a weapon for her to wield, and his obedience is a toy for her to play with.

His pain is a drug for her to get them both high off of.

So he does nothing but tilt his head back and let out a slow, small gasp as her hands wrap around his neck. He lets her press tighter, unable to move as he feels his breaths get shallower and shallower. It’s only a few seconds before he can’t breathe, before he begins to feel lightheaded and before everything from his neck up starts to feel  _ hot. _

He closes his eyes. Trying to stop himself from becoming dizzy as he gasps for a breath he knows isn’t coming.

She releases him after a few seconds, let’s his breathing return to normal and his red face cool down and his eyes open wide. He’s sure it was only a few seconds, but it always feels a whole lot longer for him.

He’s looking back up at her now as she runs a hand through his hair. “Come on Owen,” she breathes calmly. “I know you’re a good boy. You can do better than that.”

He tilts his head back once again, giving her access although he’s barely recovered from the last time. He trusts her to give no more than he can take.

He keeps his eyes open this time, audibly gasping for the breath stolen from his lungs.

He supposes the more accurate way to phrase it would be that he trusts her to take no more than he can stand to give. After all, he’s never been one to know when to stop giving. It’s not something he’s sure he trusts himself with, something that weighs on him constantly. Something he relishes being able to hand off to someone else, a responsibility that he can’t get rid of soon enough.

The burning ache in his throat runs all the way up through his head, making it hard to focus on anything else. Still, he trusts her to know when to let go.

When she does, he’s gasping loudly, lightheaded and teary-eyed.

“You can lean now,” she says almost softly as he does so, practically collapsing against the wall and feeling a sharp tug at his wrists from his restraints. “Steady breaths,” she orders, trying to help him regain the sense of normal breathing he’s lost that’s since given way to hurried gasping and panting.

He tries to slow his breathing, taking one breath at a time, in then out. He steadies himself, standing upright on his feet again, no longer relying on the wall for support. He watches her pace over to the nightstand, picking up an unopened bottle of water she’d presumably placed there earlier.

She opens the bottle as she walks back towards him, holding the bottle near his lips and tilting it. He drinks eagerly as the water spills into his mouth. The aching still in his throat is thankfully assuaged, though not entirely. He knows by now that he’ll still feel that subtle tightness in the back of his throat all night.

“That’s a good boy,” she praises quietly. “And… there.” she pulls the bottle away, now half empty, and sets it down.

He doesn’t thank her. Unless he’s safewording, he’s only supposed to speak when spoken to, but she knows he likes to remain quiet and she doesn’t mind. He rarely speaks at all during scenes like this, communicates with her through head gestures and through obedience.

“Ready to keep going?”

He nods his response.

_ Head gestures... _

“Good.” She takes a step closer, reaching to separate the chain from one of the cuffs so that he can be pulled away from the wall. She reconnects it immediately after, making sure that his hands are now chained together, this time behind his back. “Down.”

He drops to his knees immediately.

_...and obedience. _

He stays completely still, resisting the urge to turn his head as she walks towards her closet. Despite his curiosity, once she leaves his line of sight, he remains as he is, leaving him unaware of what’s coming next. Though he’s hardly surprised when she returns seconds later, riding crop in hand.

She paces around him, trailing the crop up and down his back. He tries to stay still, though the subtle sensation of the leather brushing up his skin, barely touching him sends shivers down his spine.

She strikes what feels like every inch of him with the crop. Gags him and has him continue to kneel upright, accepting the pain wherever she feels like delivering it. His chest, stomach, back, legs, thighs. Anything the crop can reach.

“Good boy,” she praises, as she watches him struggle to stay upright. “So good,” she adds as she wipes a tear from his cheek. He wants to thank her, but he doesn’t think he could bring himself to form words if he tried.

Afterwards, she undoes the cuffs on his wrists and pulls out the gag in his mouth. She gathers him in her arms and brings him over to the bed. Owen has never had to use his safeword. She always seems to know exactly when a scene has run its course, when it’s time to be done. He barely even realizes that he’s ready to stop until it’s over.

She hands him the bottle of water he’d drank half of earlier and he finishes most of it off, this time without her guiding it to his mouth. He lays comfortably in her bed, closing his eyes and processing only that which he can feel in the silent room. He feels her hand carding through his hair gently, tucking him in tightly, tracing the freckles and the tears on his face with her fingertips.

“Ready to talk yet?” she asks calmly.

He shakes his head. The silence in the room matches the silent calm inside him. It feels like all the good, all of the calm he’s feeling is somewhere lodged in the back of his throat, filling him with temporary comfort. Just the idea of opening his mouth and letting that calm out makes him feel a slight sense of dread. So he doesn’t.

He doesn’t think at all.

He curls in on himself a bit more, burying his face in the pillow and closing his eyes again as her arm drapes over him gently.

He doesn’t have to think, not now.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if anything is not properly tagged.


End file.
